Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works eBook

Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips
apart;
The zone that clung around her gentle
waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all
beneath,
The fairy light that kiss’d her
golden hair
And long’d to rest, yet could but
sparkle there!

Young flowers were whispering in melody
[21]
To happy flowers that night—­and
tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light
dell;
Yet silence came upon material things—­
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel
wings—­
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

“Neath blue-bell or
streamer—­
Or tufted wild
spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away—­[22]
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half-closing
eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from
the skies,
Till they glance thro’
the shade, and
Come down to your
brow
Like—­eyes of the
maiden
Who calls on you
now—­
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten
hours—­
And shake from your tresses
Encumber’d
with dew

The breath of those kisses
That cumber them
too—­
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be
blest?)
Those kisses of true love
That lull’d
ye to rest!
Up! shake from your wing
Each hindering
thing:
The dew of the night—­
It would weigh
down your flight;
And true love caresses—­
O! leave them
apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the
heart.

Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody
run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes
to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone
Albatross, [23]
Incumbent on night
(As she on the
air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony
there?

Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may
be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from
thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep—­
But the strains still arise
Which thy
vigilance keep—­

The sound of the rain
Which leaps down
to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm
of the shower—­
The murmur that springs [24]
From the growing
of grass
Are the music of things—­
But are modell’d,
alas!
Away, then, my dearest,
O! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray—­
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of